


Blue as a Neon Light

by elliebird



Series: Previously Posted Roswell, New Mexico Fic (2019) [5]
Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Coda, Drinking, Episode Tag, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-22 09:57:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22781116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elliebird/pseuds/elliebird
Summary: Written as a coda to episode 1x03
Relationships: Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Series: Previously Posted Roswell, New Mexico Fic (2019) [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1636822
Comments: 10
Kudos: 50





	Blue as a Neon Light

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted 02.07.19

_You’re still so good at giving them to me_. 

Alex regrets the words as soon as they’re out. Like the afternoon he told Michael he was leaving for Colorado and the Air Force Academy, he can’t take them back. 

Even ten years later, after everything that’s passed between them, they still know exactly where to push, which weak spots to exploit. Michael doesn’t turn around. 

Feeling lower than he has since he stepped back into Roswell, Alex walks away before either of them says anything else they can’t take back. 

He’s spent the last three nights with Michael at the trailer. Walking through his front door feels foreign after the last few days. They’d locked themselves in a bubble at the junkyard, fooling around and fucking and ignoring the ten years that had passed, pretending they could continue like nothing had changed. 

His house is dark. He’s always liked solitude but the silence is oppressive. He flicks on lights as he goes, heading for the kitchen and the cabinet above the fridge. There’s a bottle of expensive, top shelf bourbon his oldest brother Jack gave him when he returned home. He got a hug, a sympathetic smile, and alcohol to numb his pain. 

He pours too much into a tumbler, tops it with a splash of soda water and downs half the glass where he stands. 

Alex stopped trying to drown himself in alcohol three months into recovering from the surgery that took his leg when he could no longer ignore that no matter how much he drank, he was never going to get back what he’d lost. Self-loathing was never a good look on him and unbecoming of a Manes. Tonight feels like a good night to say _to hell_ with at least this self-imposed rule. He’s gone and fucked up the one thing that brought him any joy, any fucking _pleasure_. He might as well drown himself in a little self-pity. 

His body aches. He keeps seeing the pain in Michael’s eyes when Alex called him a criminal. A bottle of bourbon feels like the answer tonight. If he gets wasted enough, maybe he’ll finally sleep a dreamless night for once. 

Alex is a responsible adult. He follows the rules and does what his family - what his father - expects of him. Like a responsible adult, he does his drinking in private, his father’s words echoing in his ears. _I don’t care if you drink until you pass out, son. But have the self-respect to do it where no one’s watching._

After two drinks, he starts to sweat. The house feels too small, too quiet, too much of a reminder of things he’s better off forgetting. 

He drags himself and his bottle of Bulleit outside, welcoming the cool, dry air. He stands in the darkness of his front porch, carefully keeping his mind blank. If he lets himself, he’ll end up knee- deep in memories of the last three days. Fuck, of this morning, and Michael’s pure delight at waking up to find Alex still there. 

_Fuck_. With effort, leaning on his cane and wincing at the pain in his knee, he climbs down the porch. There’s nowhere to go but he starts walking anyway. 

It’s not as easy to stumble drunkenly down a town street with a prosthetic. Alex balances as much of his weight as he can on his good leg. There’s no goal but to tire himself out so he can pass out and try again tomorrow. 

He doesn’t have any sense of the time, but the street is quiet, lit up by an occasional light and the quarter moon directly above him. He turns onto the deserted road leading south out of Roswell and the desert sprawls out before him, nothing but emptiness that feels welcoming. 

He has no idea how long he’s walked for when he hears the truck pull up behind him. It could have been a minute, might have been an hour. He has two thirds of the bourbon left. 

He recognizes the truck by the sound of its engine before he sees Michael in the driver’s seat, pulling to the side of the road with a screech of the brakes. 

The door slams shut and he can hear Michael behind him. Alex ignores him. This is a low point for him. He’d rather not share it with anyone. 

“Valenti called me,” Michael says from behind him. “He saw you headed this way on his way home from the hospital.” 

“Go home, Guerin,” Alex says. He takes a drink from the bottle. It still slides smooth down his throat but he no longer winces at the burn of it. It’s really beautiful out here. In Baghdad, when he couldn’t sleep, he’d walk the base with his eyes on the sky, thinking how different it looked from that side of the world. 

“Alex. What are you doing?” The sympathy in Michael’s voice makes Alex’s stomach roll unpleasantly. Or maybe it’s the bourbon on a stomach of drive-in food. 

Michael catches up, coming to stand in front of him. Alex doesn’t have the best balance on his prosthetic even when he’s stone cold sober and the suddenness makes him stumble. Michael catches him, hands on his shoulders and a quiet, “easy,” that reminds Alex of this morning and Michael’s sexy bedroom voice. 

Alex regrets so much of his life the last ten years. He regrets leaving when his heart was here in Roswell. He regrets shutting Michael out of his life. Mostly, he regrets letting Michael believe he isn’t still hopelessly in love. 

“Give me that.” Michael lets him go, reaching for the bottle and Alex pulls his arm out of reach. “This isn’t you.” 

Alex snorts derisively. “How do you know? It’s been ten years, Guerin. Maybe this - ” he waves the bottle, alcohol splashing over his wrist “- _is_ me.” 

The devastation on Michael’s face is too much. Alex has to give him credit though, he hides it quickly with a shake of his head and a cynical smile. “Nah, man, that’s my thing, remember? You’re Alex Manes, war hero. _I’m_ the town drunk.” 

Even with half a bottle of bourbon in his bloodstream, he knows how wrong that is. “You’re not, though,” he mumbles. “Guerin,” he says, suddenly desperate for Michael to know the truth. “You’re _not_.” 

He doubts Michael cares what he thinks. Not after tonight.  
“Thanks for the concern,” Alex says, stepping out of Michael’s grip, “but I’m fine.” 

Michael yanks the bottle out of Alex’s grip and tosses it aside, impatient and aggravated. It shatters all over the asphalt. 

“I was drinking that,” Alex says. He might throw up. “Alex,” Michael’s tone changes. “Self-pity doesn’t suit you.” 

Something cold washes over him. He’s heard those words before. “Thanks, _dad_.” He straightens up, puts his weight on his cane and lifts his chin. “Let me finish that for you. _You’re embarrassing yourself. Act like a man. You_ -” 

“Stop.” Michael cuts him off like Alex’s words cause him physical pain. Michael settles his hand at Alex’s waist. 

It’s just that Alex is so _tired_. A bone-deep weariness he can’t out-run. “Michael,” he mumbles. He rests his forehead against Michael’s shoulder, just to steady himself for a second. When he raises his head to look him in the eyes, he says “let me go.” 

“Like hell,” Michael says quietly. He slips his hand beneath Alex’s denim jacket, his palm at the small of his back pulling him close. 

When he speaks, Michael’s voice is tight like the words hurt. “I don’t know how to fix it, Alex.” 

The honesty in Michael’s voice wraps itself around Alex’s heart. 

“Let me try.” He doesn’t let go when Alex tries to struggle out of his grip. 

Alex’s voice breaks. “You _can’t_.” He feels the crushing weight of everything that’s happened in the last ten years threaten to consume him. His leg hurts. His head hurts. His fucking heart hurts.

Michael takes a ragged breath. “Damn it,” he says on a whisper and knocks Alex off balance with a hand in his hair, kissing him suddenly like it makes perfect sense on a midnight stretch of desert road when Alex reeks of whiskey. 

Alex lets himself be kissed. He holds on with a hand bunched in Michael’s shirt, the one Alex slipped on the second morning when he snuck out to get coffee before Michael was awake. It smells like a combination of them both. 

Michael’s mouth tastes like cheap Wild Pony whiskey, his lips cool and his tongue insistent when it slips into Alex’s mouth like Michael remembers exactly how to unravel Alex. 

Alex is either too drunk or not drunk enough for this. He’s aware of where they are, of _who_ they are, still two opposites that, despite the ways they attract, are too different in all the ways that matter. 

“Get in the truck,” Michael says roughly, stepping back suddenly. “I’ll take you home.” 

Alex sways forward, cold at the loss of Michael’s heat and energy. He’s been on his feet too long. His back aches and his limping’s more pronounced than usual. Michael, thankfully, doesn’t hover or fuss over him. 

Michael doesn’t look at him as he climbs into the truck. Alex is grateful for it. That kiss knocked him sideways. 

It’s barely two minutes before Michael’s pulling into Alex’s driveway. Apparently, he knows where he lives. Alex is too exhausted to question it. 

Michael follows him inside.  
In his bedroom, Michael doesn’t make any move to leave. 

“I’ll be fine,” Alex says quietly. “Thanks for bringing me home.” Waking up tomorrow, remembering that Michael saw him at such a low point and then looked after him, is going to hurt. 

Alex doesn’t deserve Michael’s concern, the careful way he watches Alex like he’s ready to steady him if he falls. 

Michael’s sitting on the edge of the bed when Alex comes out of the bathroom. He’s in his underwear and a t-shirt and feeling painfully vulnerable, aware of the way his prosthetic looks. Michael’s seen it before, intimately. It feels different in this context. 

“You had a lot to drink, Alex,” is all Michael says when Alex looks at him. _Fair enough_. 

Michael’s sitting on the side of the bed where Alex sleeps. He doesn’t move when Alex sits beside him to take off his prosthetic. 

“Guerin,” Alex starts.

“Leave it, Alex,” Michael says. “Now’s not the time.” 

“Why not?” Alex smiles ruefully. “Isn’t this when we do this? When one of us is too fucked up to remember in the morning? That’s always been our thing.” 

“Yeah, well,” Michael shakes his head. “Maybe we should work on that.” He kisses Alex’s shoulder like he can’t help himself and Alex’s heart breaks a little. 

“Sleep it off,” Michael says quietly, getting to his feet. 

Several dreamless hours later, Alex opens his eyes. He can tell by the daylight peeking through a curtain that it’s mid morning. 

Carefully, he takes stock. His mouth is dry and there’s an ache at the base of his skull but he doesn’t feel nearly as terrible as he deserves to, given the amount of bourbon he consumed. 

It takes him a second to gain enough consciousness to realize he’s not alone. Michael’s asleep beside him. He’s still fully clothed, his boots at the foot of the bed. There’s Tylenol and a glass of water on the bedside table.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. I'm on [Tumblr](https://elliebirdthings.tumblr.com/).


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